“I Have Called You My Friend.” How a Childhood Friendship Led Me to Know the Greatest Friend of All.

“Marcia, Jesus was a Jew; he came for the Jewish people. He came for you!”

Those words were spoken to my mother by my friend’s mom when I was nine years old, and while they made a distinct impression on me, it wasn’t until sixteen years later that I considered them in a personal way.

I grew up in an upper middle-class, Conservative Jewish home in the suburbs of Kansas City. I attended a Jewish grade school where I learned to read from the siddur (Hebrew prayer book), recited the Shema daily and studied the lives of the patriarchs and matriarchs. In addition, I went to Hebrew school twice a week until I became a Bat Mitzvah. We attended synagogue regularly, and I was taught from a young age about the patriarchs and matriarchs of the Jewish faith. I attended Jewish summer camps every year and enjoyed, where my love for Israel was nurtured with Kibbbutz-style dancing, singing and spending time with my friends. I grew up in a loving, close-knit family. My mother kept a kosher home with separate dishes for milchig (dairy) and fleishig (meat). She taught Sunday school and was very involved in the Jewish social community. My father’s family were Cohens (from the priestly tribe of Levi) and my dad had special responsibilities of speaking the blessings over the congregation. He was also very involved in the community, serving as President of the conservative synagogue we belonged to and on the board at the Jewish community center.

My paternal grandmother was a very devout, Orthodox Jewish woman who instilled in me a sense of God’s holiness and love. She was as we say in Yiddish, a “Balabusta”, an impeccable housewife, mother and grandmother. Everything she did was out of love for God, whether it was the amazing Ashkenazic recipes she cooked up or the gentle voice and manner she used with us all. She would often tell me how much she loved me and thought of me as the little girl she never had (though she doted over her two boys like a typical Jewish mother). My grandmother loved to write down poems and sayings to live by, a treasure trove I still have copies of. One of her favorite sayings was, “The secret to a happy and successful life is to love God and keep his commandments.” My grandmother would say, “Avigayil, don’t ever forget that you are Jewish, and that being Jewish is very special.”

It wasn’t until I started the fourth grade in a public school that I realized there was a whole other world outside the Jewish life we led. I remember one boy saying, “Oh, you’re Jewish? Didn’t you guys kill Christ? Well, I wasn’t sure who “Christ” was, but I was pretty sure my family and everyone we knew hadn’t murdered anyone recently, if ever. In that moment, I realized the gentile community was not so friendly to us Jewish kids and the feeling of being “special” quickly turned from positive to negative.

Some of the girls gradually started warming up to me, but one girl in particular was very friendly. She was kind and generous and never played favorites. We quickly became friends, spending most of our free time together. In the Summertime, we would spend day after day at the country club where my family belonged, or at the public pool she liked to visit. Beyond our common interests, something deeper seemed to connect us, though you wouldn’t have guessed it at first glance. Her family members were Baptist Christians and we were Conservative Jews. They believed in God; we believed in God. Their home was different than any other gentile friend’s and our home was definitely different. Their lives centered on the Bible, ours on Judaism and the holidays. Even though our beliefs about God differed, being different from the rest of the world linked us together.

It was in their home where I first saw a picture of Jesus, or I should say, pictures of Jesus. I’m not sure how many pictures were on their dining room and living room walls but when my mother came to pick me up from their house, she exclaimed, “Oy, it’s like a shrine in there!” (Jewish people regard pictures of a “god” as a violation of the second commandment to “have no graven image”) I remember awkwardly staring at those pictures, but also thinking about how peaceful he looked and how he seemed to be smiling at me (even though he looked more Catholic than Jewish). I asked my mother that day, “Was Jesus really Jewish? Why don’t we believe in him?” Not knowing how to respond, she said, “I don’t really know, Avigayil. All I know is we’re Jewish and Jews don’t believe in Jesus!”

Even though talk of Jesus made my mother uncomfortable, she and my friend’s mom, Bridgette, got along quite well. When my parents went to Israel, my mother brought her back a camel carved out of olive wood, which she treasured for years. By junior high school, my friend and I had mostly different social groups (hers Christian, mine mostly Jewish) so our contact waned somewhat. We remained friendly but didn’t spend much time together. However, we only lived five blocks from each other, and later in high school, I sometimes would stop by to see her.

One afternoon, I pulled up to their circle drive and rang the doorbell. Bridgette warmly invited me in and encouraged my friend, Becky, to take me with her that night to a friend’s house for a youth gathering. I had no idea it was a “Youth For Christ” meeting or I probably would have run the other way. When we arrived, there were informal greetings, a short teaching and worship. Looking around at the living room full of teenagers singing about Jesus, I was struck by how peaceful and happy many of them seemed to be, with smiles on their faces and joy that seemed real.

It wasn’t until several years later, during College, when I had a traumatic dating experience that resulted in pregnancy, I began to really question things in life, particularly about what I believed. I had somewhat drifted away from my Jewish community and at twenty-one years old, I was thrust into motherhood. The trajectory of my life changed dramatically. While my parents were very involved in my daughter’s life, I still felt alone in many ways. I began to ask existential questions like, “Why am I here, God?” and “What is the meaning of my life?”

It was about that time I met another single woman in my apartment complex who instantly befriended me and my daughter. She regularly invited us up to her apartment for her Southern cooking. She was African American and would play soulful, contemporary Christian music and sing along with deep joy. She knew I was Jewish and never made an issue over anything religious, yet I knew she definitely believed in Jesus. One Sunday, she invited me and my daughter to her church. I had always admired black gospel choirs and their vibrant spirit, and I enjoyed spending time with my friend, so I reasoned it would be o.k. to visit. As soon as the choir began singing, my spirit seemed to lift and by the time it was over, I was moved to tears. It was like my heart recognized what my mind was not ready to accept. I knew I wanted what these people had, but as a Jew, I didn’t know how I would ever be able to find it through Jesus.

One thing I did know was that Kim read her Bible–a lot. One time, while she was cooking in her small kitchen, I sat in her nearby living room talking with her. On the coffee table, I saw her Bible open and an insert on the page called, “Encouraging Words For Women.” As a writer, I was somewhat interested in reading the reflection and as I did, I found the words to do just what the title promised–offer encouragement. Something I needed a heavy dose of. The next time I was at a bookstore, I found the Bible section and saw a Bible just like Kim’s with these writings for women. I suddenly had an idea: I could purchase the Bible and just read these inserts and avoid the New Testament altogether. However, God had something else in mind!

One day, I brought the Bible to the coffee shop where I worked so I could read the inserts on my break. I hid it under the counter so no one could see it. A middle-aged man came to deliver coffee and as he brought the boxes around to where I was behind the counter, he bent down to place them on the floor, and seeing the Bible said, “I see your Bible there. Are you a Christian?”

“No, no!”, I quickly responded. “I just read that for the inspirational writings.” Before I knew it, he was telling me how Jesus rescued him from alcoholism and changed his life. He looked at me and smiled, and then he left. Part of me thought, “Oh, boy, another Jesus freak.” But, another part of me was intrigued by how it seemed like everywhere I went, there were people who believed in Jesus.”

A few weeks later, I was in a bar listening to live music with some friends when I ran into my old childhood friend, Becky. We hadn’t seen each other in twelve years and things were different in both of our lives. When I got home that night, I remembered how Becky’s mom used to talk about God like she knew him personally-like she had some direct connection. I thought, “I bet if I called her, she would have some good advice for me right now.” I got out the phone book and looked up their names, only to find the number was unlisted. Oh, that’s right, I thought. They always had an unlisted number; I used to know it, but its been more than ten years… there’s no way I’ll remember it now.

The next night, as I was going to sleep, out of nowhere, the number popped into my mind. 913-381-6138. “That’s weird!”, I thought. I don’t know where that came from!” The next day, I called the number and Bridgette answered. We spent several minutes chatting about what was new, and I shared with her about my struggles as a single mom and how some things during my college years had left me feeling somewhat lost and directionless. She spoke the same words she spoke to my mother sixteen years earlier. “Avigayil, you need Jesus. He can bring meaning and direction back into your life again.”

“But I’m Jewish. Jews don’t believe in Jesus,” I objected.

“Jesus was Jewish. He came for the Jewish people. He came for you,” Bridgette said. She went on to explain how all the early followers of Jesus were Jewish and that his Hebrew name was “Yeshua”, which means salvation, and that believing in him doesn’t make a Jew less Jewish. Still, all I could think was, “Is she telling me about Jesus the Jew or Jesus the gentile God?” And if Jesus really was a Jew, why don’t any of my family or friends–not to mention the rabbis–believe in him? And why, if Jesus came for the Jewish people, why was anyone who had anything to do with him a Gentile? Finally, and most importantly, what would my family think if I believed in Jesus?

A few weeks later, while having lunch with my father, I asked him, “What if Jesus really was the Jewish Messiah and we missed him?” He looked at me pensively for a moment and said, “Jesus was Jewish; he was a prophet and a great man, but how could he be born of a virgin?” I was surprised by my answer: “Dad, I said, “what about Moses and the miracle of the Red Sea? And Sarah giving birth to Isaac at 99? If God could do that, who’s to say…?”

My dad’s response surprised me even more. “Eh, those are legends, we don’t even know if they really happened,” he reasoned. Legends? In our own Bible? My dad had never called them that before. I was worried believing in Jesus would betray my heritage, but even I knew the Bible was the basis for that heritage. How strange that I could not appeal to its pages with my father. This made me even more curious about why my people didn’t want to even consider if Jesus was more than a prophet.

The following week, my friend gave me a book called, “More Than A Carpenter” by Josh McDowell. It was a thin book, less than a hundred and fifty pages, but filled will compelling evidence about Jesus fulfilling over 400 prophecies from the Old Testament. McDowell made the argument that according to Jesus’ own statements and the prophecies he fulfilled, he had to either be “Lord, a lunatic or a liar”. I began to see the inconsistencies with believing he was a lunatic or a liar–his actions proved otherwise– but I was still conflicted and confused about how I could believe in him and remain Jewish. I tried to read the New Testament in secret but would only end up more confused when doubts filled my mind with other explanations for the so called “miracles” I found on its pages.

Around the same time, Bridgette invited me to go to their church one Sunday. By this point, I was on a quest for the truth. I needed more information. There seemed to be a restless struggle inside me that wouldn’t go away. When I went, I didn’t find anything about how Jesus relates to being Jewish, but I did discover caring people filled with tremendous peace who genuinely seemed to have an interest in me and love for my people. While we were there, Bridgette introduced me to the pastor. I quickly began asking him all of my questions. He said he would like to spend some time answering me from the Bible. Could he come to my home with a couple friends? Even though the idea seemed a bit crazy to have a Christian pastor come to my home with his friends, the journalist in me was just too curious to know more, especially from people who spent their lives teaching others about God. Interested to know more, I agreed.

A few days later, I found out that Becky was returning from New York where she had been living after recently eloping. We made a lunch date for the same day I was supposed to meet with the pastor. I picked her up and we went to a local cafe, where we spent a long time catching up before I noticed I was going to be late for the meeting with the pastor. I asked her if she didn’t mind coming back with me to my apartment and I would take her home after the meeting. She agreed. The pastor talked about sin, the need for forgiveness and heaven. It all seemed to go straight past me. All I could think about was, “If Jesus was Jewish, why isn’t there anything Jewish about the church?” “As I posed this question to the pastor, he didn’t know what to say. He showed me a small picture of Jesus standing outside a door, gently knocking. He told me Jesus was knocking on the door of my heart. Would I let him in? “No,” I said. I still had too many questions. “If Jesus was the Messiah, why did the holocaust happen?” Where is the peace the Messiah was supposed to usher in?,” I said, and “Why don’t the Rabbis believe?”

The pastor acknowledged that he didn’t have easy answers for my tough questions.

He asked me if it would be alright to talk with my friend Becky, who was having trouble in her new marriage. Out of respect for my friend, I agreed. After learning she had gotten away from her faith in recent years, he asked if she would like to renew her relationship with Jesus. She said she yes, and the pastor asked me if it would be alright if they prayed. He said he didn’t usually ask another person if they want to pray when someone else in the home has already said no, but since we were such good childhood friends, would it be o.k. if he prayed with her? I had always appreciated and respected the Buchanan’s beliefs so I said, “Of course.” He said one more thing before they prayed. “Avigayil, if you decide you would like to join us, please do.” “Sure, sure”, I thought. That wasn’t going to happen. “Thank you but, I still have too many questions,” I said.

They bowed their heads and closed their eyes so I did also, though it was very different from the way I had prayed all my life, standing up in the synagogue with eyes open, chanting from the Siddur (Hebrew prayer book). I thought, “I will pray too, but I will make sure it is to the God of Israel”. I silently prayed, “God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob: Show me if this is true. If Jesus really is your son and the Messiah…because if it’s not true, I don’t want to have anything to do with it.”

Within seconds, there seemed to be a holy glow in the room. It was as if time stopped and I was in the presence of God, as he spoke directly to my heart, “Avigayil, every moment in your life leads up to this one right now. I gave you this friend when you were a child. I’ve brought her here today so you would see who I am. I’m here. I’m your Messiah.” The veil was lifted and I could finally see with clarity–Jesus was the the son of God and the Messiah of my people!

By this time, the pastor had reached the point in the prayer of asking for forgiveness, when I found myself joining in the prayer too, asking Jesus to come into my heart. All the things I had struggled to understand for months came together like the pieces of a puzzle. I had asked God to show me and now, as I sat there in my living room with my childhood friend, (who just happened to come home from New York during my quest for truth), he did show me.

After all my searching, one question was all it took. And, the question was not “If it’s true, why don’t my people or the rabbis believe?” but simply, “Is this really true? If it is, show me!” He showed me that Jesus had been ‘knocking on the door of my heart’ and pursuing me my whole life. Through the love and gentleness of my grandmother. Through the love of my parents. Through the beauty of his creation. And now, through the kindness of my friend, I had discovered the greatest friend of all. And, even more miraculous was that he says in John 15:15, “I no longer call you servants, because a servant does not know his master’s business. Instead, I have called you friends.”

I suddenly found myself joining in the prayer too, asking Jesus to come into my heart. When heads were lifted and eyes were opened, surprise was on every face, including mine! I had gone into this meeting a total skeptic and nothing the pastor said or anyone else for the past year and a half could convince me. But, a “knowing” in my spirit brought me to a place of faith.

Ezekiel 36:27 says, “I will put my spirit in you and move you to follow my decrees and be careful to keep my laws. Then you will know that I am the Lord.” Jeremiah 31:31 says, “I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit within you. I will take the heart of stone out of you and give you a heart of flesh.” It was God himself who had moved me and drawn me to him, and helped me to see. I felt joy fill my heart but I also knew there were things I needed forgiveness for. Later that night, lying in bed, I began to remember things I had done all throughout my life, sins against God and others that I had rationalized or forgotten. They came into my mind, one after the other and for the first time, I was truly grieved over them. I began weeping, telling the Lord I was so sorry for all the ways I had disobeyed him. In Hebrew, we call this Teshuva–turning from the way you were going and choosing to go the right way. The fear and anxiety that had gripped me before left, and a peace I had never known before flooded my heart. That night, I slept like a baby.

The pastor had encouraged me to call three people and tell them about my new faith, so the next day, I called Becky’s mom and Kim. They were overjoyed. I was amazed at how freely I could say the name of Jesus. It became sweeter than honey–no longer the name of an enemy and like a bone in the throat- but that of my dearest friend!

Still, I had a third person to call. My parents came to my mind, but how could I possibly tell them? They would be so hurt and disappointed–they would probably think I was out of my mind. I finally got the courage to call. When I told them I thought Jesus was the Messiah, my mother asked, “How could you do this?” Not wanting to accept the reality of my faith, she announced this was a “temporary phase”. My father was devastated. “Your grandfather would roll over in his grave if he knew,” he said, his voice breaking. Over the next several months, I pointed out to my parents where the Jewish prophecies in Scripture pointed to Jesus. They agreed to come to my home for a Messianic Passover Seder, which led to more conversations about my faith.

However, my father was so distraught, he went to the Rabbi for help, (who was the son of Holocaust survivors who had endured tremendous suffering at the hands of “Christians”. He gave my father a book to share with me, in the hopes that I would recant my new beliefs. “If she doesn’t,” he said, “there isn’t anything else to do but consider her dead.” Eventually, my mother realized this was not temporary as she hoped, and sadly, it affected our relationship. She and my dad moved to Florida. We talked occasionally on the phone, but there was no denying our relationship was strained. My father and I were especially close, and we continued to share our hearts with each other until he passed a few years later. My mother never got over the hurt from my decision and sadly, she passed suddenly a few years after my dad.

However, during those twelve years after I became a believer, my parents and family did see how my new faith changed my life and how upon following Yeshua, I had more meaning, joy and peace. They also realized my faith in Yeshua revived the importance of my Jewish heritage while I was raising my young daughter, which did bring them some happiness.

Following Yeshua has given me irreplaceable joy and peace, not because it removed every problem from life, but because it provides true perspective based on God’s promises. The circumstances with my family have not been easy, but I have learned to trust in God’s perfect plan.

The ancient words of King David in Psalm 27 have given constant strength through broken-heartedness and many trials.

“One thing I have asked and that will I seek: that I may dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life. When my father and mother forsake me, then the Lord will take care of me. I would have lost heart unless I had believed that I would see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. Wait on the the Lord; be of good courage and he shall strengthen your heart; wait I say on the Lord.” (Psalm 27)

If you suspect that Jesus might be the Messiah but are struggling with some of the issues I had, I hope you will find it in your heart to sort through your questions and ask God to show you the truth. If you do, I believe that you will be more than satisfied with the answer.

Let me know in the comments below where you are in your journey of faith. I would love to hear your story!